


Made In Hell

by SueDeeNimh



Series: SPN Masquerade 2020 Fills [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Dean Winchester Tortures Sam Winchester, Erotic Electrostimulation, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Past Alastair/Dean Winchester, Past Lucifer/Sam Winchester, SPN Masquerade Kink Meme, Sam Winchester has a high pain tolerance, Stitches, Torturer Dean Winchester, caveat lector, fucked up winchesters, not safe for life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueDeeNimh/pseuds/SueDeeNimh
Summary: Alistair made Dean into a sadist. It's not like he wants to get his rocks off that way, but Sam is a little too perceptive and way too generous, and hey, what's the point of having a sex dungeon if you never try out a little consensual torture with your brother?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: SPN Masquerade 2020 Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707316
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44
Collections: SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020





	Made In Hell

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt: Sam/Dean, past Dean/Alastair, re-enacting Dean's time in Hell**  
>  Dean's time in Hell left him with certain . . . proclivities. Namely, a desire to both torture and be tortured. Can be a relatively healthy and consensual role play with Sam, or something much darker and more messed up. 
> 
> I really struggled with this more than I thought I would. I wanted to write and explore it, but when it came to sitting down and putting the words in order I found myself reluctant. I tried posting in parts just to get it out there, but when the days between started stretching I knew it was time to wrap it up. No worries if this one isn't for you, the next fill I did is much less fraught!

"Oh fuck, I'm sorry." Dean reached for Sam but aborted the motion halfway.

Sam only bothered to glance at his brother as he examined the blood welling from his forearm. Deep, but there were plenty of other scars there already from anytime blood was needed for a spell or, hell, sometimes just to say, hi, bro, I'm not a monster. He pinched the edges shut and sighed. "I probably shouldn't have startled you."

Dean had been chopping beets with prejudice, and their biggest kitchen knife, when Sam, absent-mindedly catfooted, had reached around him to grab the coffee carafe. Dean had swung the knife in a vicious instinct, Sam had raised his arm to block, and here they were, Dean flushing red with shame.

"Six or eight stitches should do it," Sam went on. "Will this stuff be okay to leave out?" He jerked his chin at the makings of stir-fry strewn across the counter, pile of dismembered beets oozing reddish juice all over, not quite as bright as Sam's blood pooling on the floor.

Dean hesitated, which was unlike him. "Maybe I'm not the best person to do that for you, Sam," he said low and rough, like it was taking a lot for him to get the words out.

"Oh, right, let me just walk down the hall and ask our neighbors," Sam said, dripping blood and sarcasm.

"The clinic in town knows us, now, I mean, you could get it taken care of by a professional…"

"Or I could sew it up myself left-handed, if you're really going to be the kind of asshole who knifes me and won't even clean up the mess," Sam complained. What was up with Dean? They'd been stitching each other up since before they could (legally) drive, and now Dean was wimping out at the sight of a little blood?

"Fine," Dean capitulated, "Go sit down with a towel while I grab the kit, okay?"

* * *

Dean's hands were still faintly stained red with beet juice when he returned, but he set the first couple stitches neatly enough. Maybe Sam wouldn't have noticed anything off if he weren't still watching his brother closely for hints about whatever that had been, earlier. But Dean's breathing was slightly fast, his pupils dilated, faintly flushed and sitting strangely…

"Are you turned on?" Sam blurted, and laughed. "Dude, I know you had a swing and a miss this week, but if you wanted to get my shirt off there're way easier ways to…"

"Shut _up,_ Sam," Dean flushed darker and wouldn't meet his eyes. "You wanted me to patch you, I'm patching you, but you want to practice that left-handed stitching, be my guest." He held the needle out to Sam instead of starting the next stitch, silently daring Sam to continue.

Sam considerately shut up, since he'd apparently hit a sore spot, but that didn't stop him from noticing that every time he flinched or hissed—okay, fine, so he might have let out a little moan, sue him—but at every noise he made, Dean’s breath caught. 

He watched Dean press his lips together and stab the needle even more sharply into Sam’s flesh, making the stitches bigger—deeper—than necessary in his haste to be done. “Ow,” Sam said mildly. 

Dean glared furiously at him. What had Sam even done? Dean was the one who’d—

“All done,” Dean said tightly, snapping the last thread and reaching for a bandage, innocent white gauze to hide it away. 

Sam waited for the bandage and then poked it with his good hand, feeling out the edges of the injury. 

Dean’s eyes were glued to his arm, cock noticeably tenting his jeans. 

Sam deliberately dug his fingers in, hard enough to restart the bleeding. “Feels good,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, really; it felt like using the scar in his hand to remind himself what was real, remind himself that he was with Dean and he could count on Dean, that his time with the Devil was over. 

But he wasn't doing it for how it would feel; he wanted to see how Dean would react. 

He wasn’t disappointed. Dean sucked in air like he was going underwater, and his hand jerked toward his cock like he wanted to grab it. Wanted to squeeze it down or rub one out, Sam couldn’t tell, but at a certain point it stopped mattering. 

“Dean.” Sam sighed. “You can get your rocks off on this if you want to. It’s alright, I don’t care.” 

Sam would have loved to give Dean crap about it, actually, but Dean was acting way too cagey. Usually he talked about freaky kinks with no prompting at all, so if he was really bent out of shape about this one, Sam could be accepting. 

He was open-minded like that. “There are websites for, um, niche interests, you know.” Sam quirked a brow.

Dean tried to laugh. It came out harsh and half-broken. “Amateurs. None of them have any idea," he twisted so he wasn't looking at Sam, but at the blood spattered lightly on the floor under them, "The things Alastair taught me to do, the things he taught me to _get off on.”_

So that _was_ it. Sam considered. “You could take some time with a hot monster, get some quality torture in, before we have to kill it.” Wasn’t like Sam hadn’t gone down that road before. 

Dean just looked withering. “No.”

Ouch. So much for Sam’s past choices. He shrugged. “Well then, who else—besides me—are you going to be able to indulge yourself with?”

“No one. It’s not happening, okay, Sam? Never.” Dean’s head was bent, resigned and miserable. 

Sam’s mouth hung half open. Dean had never, not ever in all the time Sam had known him, been one for sexual repression. “What? Seriously?”

Dean’s head came up to glare at him. “Maybe you don’t get what I _want,_ Sam. I want to make people bleed, I want to make them suffer, I want to make them regret ever laying eyes on me." He looked viciously feral, the way he looked chopping heads off vampires. "And then I want to make them come ‘cause they can’t get away, and for a finishing touch I want them to hurt me just as bad while _I_ come." He stood up, agitated. "So yeah, let me know if you find anybody who’d be into all that. And until then, _leave me the hell alone about it.”_

Sam looked after Dean as he stalked back into the kitchen. Faintly, he could hear the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board, or maybe Dean was just thwacking it into the wall repeatedly to blow off steam. 

Sam could give him a minute. Long enough to think about what Dean said, make sure he wasn't stepping wrong. But then he followed him into the kitchen, leaned against the doorway. He'd never been good at leaving well enough alone, or maybe he just never learned how to leave _Dean_ alone. "This isn't the first time you've sewn me up since you got out of Hell, Dean. Did you pop a boner all those other times?"

At least Dean looked at him again, wary of where he was going with it. "No. A little. Not really.”

Sam was glad he hadn’t been that oblivious. He held his bandaged arm out, fingers playing lightly over the wound. “So why did you this time?”

Dean breathed out sharp, giving in, and crossed to Sam in a couple long strides. He put his hand over Sam’s, over the wound, and squeezed, not gently. “Because I was the one who put it there, this time,” and his eyes were dark and possessive when he lifted them to meet Sam’s. “You were hurting because of me.”

Sam once again thought of the glass-cut in his palm that Dean had sewn up, Sam’s soul fresh out of Hell, and how Dean had taught him to use the pain to ground himself. Dean’s small pain on Sam’s real body, a comfort compared to Lucifer’s terrorism of his soul. “Lucifer gave me a really high pain tolerance,” he said quietly. “And I got good at putting on a show.” To scream and whimper whether it hurt at a one or an eleven, because if he didn’t the damage would only get worse and last longer. Lucifer wanted it to matter to Sam and he hated it when Sam went away in his head, or if he thought Sam wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Like a baby in some ways. Angels mostly didn’t mature very well, for all their eons. 

Dean squeezed harder and Sam gasped, let his own hand slide out so it was just Dean’s hand on the bandage, turning red with blood soaking through. There was a red smear on Sam’s fingers, and he wiped it on the back of Dean’s hand, admiring the different shades of red, pink, and white: blood and beet stain, flesh and lingering corners of white gauze. Dean used his other hand to grab Sam's, turning it over until the scar on his palm was visible to them both. “I want to dig in everywhere he ever touched you," he said quietly, intensely, "And scar it so you'll never think of anyone but me touching you, hurting you."

And that...that was sounding better than Sam had expected. "I might be into that, if it's you." He grinned weakly. "This is pretty fucked up, even for us."

"Yeah. It is," Dean huffed. "You know, if this is just you deciding you really want into my pants after all these years, there are way easier ways to say so, Sammy."

"Believe me, if that was all, you'd know," Sam shot back. "I just don't want you taking your pent-up frustrations out on innocent civilians." That wasn't really it, either, of course, but damned if he could put into words yet _why_ he found the idea so interesting.

Thankfully Dean seemed to get it and didn't push. "Okay, well, we can think about it over dinner, then. Assuming you haven't gone off your appetite."

Which Sam did, sometimes, especially when Lucifer came up, but he felt fine now. "Sounds good," he said, and meant it.

* * *

"Ground rules." Dean folded his arms. There was a hint of nervous energy to him, but it was locked down tight. "This only takes place here. I'm not fucking up the places we sleep with bad juju."

They were in the dungeon, because what good was a dungeon if you couldn't use it for freaky sex games? Sam nodded. He wouldn't have thought of it, but it was a good rule. 

It was a few weeks since Dean had sliced his arm, but when it was time to take the stitches out Dean had sat Sam down and pulled slow and painful, one by one—and at the end of it they were both hard and they knew they were doing this.

"Rule two: we're all in. No restraints, no safewords. You're going to lie down on the table and I'm going to see if your pain tolerance is _as advertised_ and if you don't like it you can get up and leave." Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Good," Sam bared his teeth. He wouldn't be leaving, and he wouldn't have used a safeword if he had one. But it wouldn't have worked out this way between strangers. Dean would never have been satisfied by some BDSM hookup.

Dean let the corner of his mouth lift at Sam's response. At least they were on the same page. "Ready to get started?"

In answer, Sam shucked his shirt and shoes and sat down on the big table in the middle of the room, pivoting and lying back supine. Like a corpse, he thought, fidgeting as he tried to figure out the least awkward place to put his arms. Finally he clasped his hands over his middle, head turned to look at Dean.

Dean was plugging something into the wall outlet by the door. When he turned around, Sam could see some sort of tool in his hands. It wasn't large, but they both knew that didn't mean anything.

A couple strides and Dean was close enough to stare down at Sam. "Pants off, too," he grunted, and Sam shrugged and shucked his jeans and underwear, sweeping off his socks along with them. He and Dean weren't usually exhibitionist, but in the context of this—they'd both done their time in Hell. Clothing would just get in the way.

Sam flinched as he felt the first touch of pain. Dean had touched the blunt tip of the metal thing in his hand to the spot just under Sam's ribs, right where kids played tickling games, and electrical current flooded through Sam for a brief moment until Dean took the thing away again.

"That was the lightest setting," Dean explained, watching Sam's face hungrily. Sam breathed lightly, in and out. "I figured turning you into a bloody mess could be bad for your long-term health, not to mention a pain to clean, so electrostim is what we're going with: even more pain, no scarring." Briefly, wistfully, he ran his nails over Sam's healing wound where the stitches had come out, pressing to make Sam's nerves flare up; but it was an old wound now, and Sam just grinned.

"Smart." He decided as long as he wasn't tied down, he might as well participate, and touched a finger curiously to the point of the electrostim 'knife.' The shock ran through him again, and he groaned. Even the lightest setting was enough to be unpleasant.

Dean waited for Sam to take his finger away, and then followed it with the rounded tip of the knife, maintaining contact so that Sam didn't get a break from it. He traced a line of fire up the side of Sam's finger, then crossed the palm line, searching out Sam's scar and running alongside it. The pain dulled as it crossed the scar itself; Sam had permanently lost sensation there, from how much he had interfered with the healing cut. He'd needed it raw to get Lucifer out of his head.

Dean found a twisted-up knot of tissue and dug in suddenly, and Sam screamed, yanked from inside his head. "The setting increases the harder I push," Dean said casually. "Don't gotta mess around with knobs or dials. Makes it easier to feel the art, you know?"

"Thanks for the warning," Sam panted, unable to keep the sarcastic edge from his voice. Trembles shuddered through his body even after Dean lifted it away from his skin. "Where'd you even get something like that?"

"Made it," Dean said with a boyish grin that reminded Sam of long-ago EMF meters and sawed-offs. 

"Great, so happy for you," Sam said, and Dean applied it to the inside of his forearm, the one unscarred by Dean's knife. Well. The one that just had older scars, anyway. Sam clenched his teeth and screwed his face up, but didn't scream again. Not yet. It was important to make Dean feel like he had to work at it to get Sam to show pain.

Dean was happy to linger, drawing patterns up and down Sam's arm while Sam let out little whimpers between his teeth. Up into the shoulder muscle...yeah, that was actually painful, Sam registered distantly. Too much time hunching over lorebooks.

"You don't take very good care of yourself, Sammy," Dean hummed, prodding hard into a big knot. "What good is all that fussing over salads if you carry all your tension in here without ever working it out?"

"Screw you, I'll carry tension wherever I want to," Sam spat, aware he was losing his rationality but too focused on the movement of the hellish little metal wand. He hoped Dean was getting what he wanted out of this, because Sam...well, Sam was surprised to realize that he was getting hard, actually.

"I'll just have to dig it out the hard way, then," Dean said, sounding way too chipper. He was tenting his pants, too, Sam noticed. Dean used his free hand to drag lightly over Sam's chest until he could viciously pinch and twist a nipple. 

Sam let out a half-shout at that. It stung. But his body stayed relaxed, unmoving, on the table. Right where Dean wanted him. 

The next current of electricity jolted through him, hard and then retreating to a barely-there stinging hum—and then the device dug in deep again and Sam really did scream again. 

It was okay. It was Dean. It wasn't that it didn't hurt, or even that he enjoyed the pain—whatever he was, it wasn't quite a masochist—but pain had been so intrinsic to his existence, for so long, it had ceased to matter on some fundamental level. He screamed because it was easier than not screaming, and because he didn't have to care, right now. If he needed to get up and fight through the pain, he could do that. If he needed to carry on a conversation, he could do that too. If he needed to come...well, Lucifer hadn't always had much patience for human frailties. He'd often wanted Sam to turn on a dime from torture sessions to mockeries of love, and Sam had learned to do that too.

"C'mon, get out of your head," Dean was saying, above him. "I might start to think you're not paying attention." He dragged fingernails down Sam's sternum and pinched again, right at the lowest rib.

"I'm here," Sam said. And that was the real amazing thing, wasn't it? That they were both here, and alive, and mostly sane. "Just got bored waiting for you to start in on the real torture." He bared a grin at Dean. A challenge.

"Oh, that's the way it is, huh?" Dean grinned back. It was a feral, savage grin: challenge accepted. "I think we're gonna have a lot of fun here together, Sam."

**Author's Note:**

> In RL people can die from homemade electric toys. Don't be them. In this fic, worst case, Sam and Dean have some embarrassing explanations to make to Chuck.


End file.
